Perfect
by Beliel
Summary: Madara knows Itachi is perfect. Madara knows Itachi is fatally flawed. An introspective and fairly sick little drabble of Madara and Itachi's dynamic. Shota. NonCon. MadaIta.


**Warning: **Shota. Noncon. Mindfuckery. Madara is a bastard. MadaIta.

**Disclaimer:** Not my characters. They belong to Kishimoto. Not that I'm actually any worse to them then he is, good god.

_Perfect  
_

Itachi was perfect. Madara knew this intimately.

The young Uchiha was beautiful in form. At thirteen his frame was still slender and unfilled, small and deceptively fragile and feminine. The body of a child with the power and experience of a battle god. His face, when he slept, was angelic; the dark smudges and lines of exhaustion smoothed away, and long lashes brushed soft cheeks. When you couldn't see his eyes, Itachi looked as innocent and sweet as a child of heaven.

Itachi's mind was as perfect as his body. Analytical, intelligent, observant. Itachi was sharper, smarter, faster then men with two or three times his age and experience. You could see it in his eyes; too knowing and cold for a thirteen year old child. Too ancient in pain and sadness and malice.

Madara knew every facet of that startlingly brilliant mind. He knew how perfect Itachi was; how perfect, and strong and amazingly rare the boy was, and how even those that admired Itachi could not fathom the depth and power of his gifts.

And Madara knew that Itachi was also flawed.

It was not an obvious flaw; not pride or greed or any of the sins so common in men. It was not a flaw many would see. But Madara saw it. Madara saw it because he knew Itachi better than anyone, and because Madara always saw everything.

Itachi's flaw was love. It was such a subtle, powerful flaw, and Madara could see how it ran through Itachi's mind and soul like the most invisible of spider web cracks. And he knew how that flaw was Itachi's greatest strength.

And Madara knew how that incredible strength would be turned against Itachi, used to shatter the perfect boy into a million perfect pieces.

Madara knew this because Madara knew everything.

So when, one night, Itachi stood over the unconscious body of his little brother, the blood of his parents still warm on his face and hands, Madara was not surprised in the least to catch the glint of tears on Itachi's cheeks, reflected in the full moon's light. Each tear was a piece of Itachi's shattered mind, Madara could see it, the way Itachi stood and wept without moving or making a sound. Madara could see the way love had been turned against the perfect boy, and torn him into a million fragments.

The heart was a treacherous creature. That was why shinobi were taught to ignore it. But Itachi had never quite been able to do so, not entirely. And that was his undoing, as he stood there, unable to kill his own brother while Madara watched him fall apart.

It was the highest sin for a shinobi. Itachi's ultimate, greatest failure. The thing the perfect boy never quite mastered, and so it had mastered him.

It was why Itachi didn't move when Madara stepped out of the shadows and picked him up by the throat. The weakness was why the sword—still black with gore from his family (nothing more than cooling meat around them, all except Sasuke)—dropped from numb fingers instead of being plunged into Madara's side. It was the reason Itachi didn't make a sound when Madara crushed their lips together, tasting blood and tears, licking them from Itachi's lips and cheeks.

That flaw that had torn Itachi apart was why Itachi did not protest when Madara shoved him against the nearest wall and tore his shorts down and off.

And yet, shattered and dead in all but technicality, Itachi was still perfect. Even Madara had to admit it, had to admire how the boy did not make a single noise when Madara pressed up into him without preparation, tearing and stretching the child's entrance until blood ran down Itachi's thighs to drip in the dirt that was swallowing the blood of the kin Itachi had murdered. And the boy still refused to even grunt, his face set in blank concentration, focused so far inward that Madara briefly wondered if Itachi were even aware of what was happening to his body.

But then Itachi met Madara's eyes, a moment of awareness, a flash of that perfect gaze, and that was all Madara needed to be as cruel and brutal and possessive of his perfect little pawn as he could be.

It was not consensual because Madara did not ask permission and Itachi would never give it even if asked. But Itachi was too perfect and too broken to cry or even move or sigh as Madara fucked him roughly against the wall.

Madara was polite enough to pretend he did not see the fresh tears that fell down Itachi's cheeks as Madara took his virginity and the last of his innocence. They both knew, without speaking, that the tears would never be mentioned.

But Madara was cruel enough to chuckle when Itachi glanced over the older man's shoulder, gaze locked on his unconscious little brother as Madara pounded into Itachi's ass. Madara was cruel enough to whisper obscene suggestions as he came inside Itachi, laughing darkly as he rode to his own release inside that hot, tight warmth, locking eyes with Itachi as the boy glared at him with unconcealed fury and dark hatred for daring to bring his brother into the suggestions.

Madara knew that look would fuel his lust for a long time.

When the last waves of orgasm had left Madara, Itachi shoved him away, leaned against the wall because even if he was perfect, he was human, and his legs were shaky and weak, blood and semen running down his thighs while Madara watched openly. Anyone else would have looked down, but Itachi watched Madara, unashamed and cold again.

But then, Itachi was perfect, after all.


End file.
